Alice- White Sunday

Yellow pears

turning from Saturday's sun,

sweet and soft

waiting for a dry tongue.

Ash sky,

sipping in some rest,

a sleeping giant.

Lanterns, still

spheres of peace,

round swans

floating.

Where did

last night go?

Right...into

reckless dancing,

swimming in my

vodka twists.

Its only July,

plenty of time

for a summer fling,

let the shenanigans begin.

Quiet Rituals

This morning,

I

kissed tiny toes,

wiped smeared banana

off the window sills,

cleaned out my purse,

pitched some old bills,

steeped a cup of

lemon tea,

paid my school fees,

put my little darling to sleep,

smiled when she didn't

make a peep.

Honey, I'm Home

This place,

poised to take us in.

Its pulse swoons,

melting the drear

into a canopy

of tangerine.

The backdoor open,

august- floating in.

Heavy florals,

forsythia and lilac

waft through.

Your sand-drenched

legs could use

a back-yard shower.

Strawberry lips.

Our bodies kneel down

in the dusky light,

ignoring the shrieking kettle.

My navel, moist and vanilla.

Tuberose on my heels,

arches, and between my toes.

My sleeveless blouse, gone.

Your shoulder, salty.

My inner judge

on vacation.

Laughing.

Breathing.

Taking you

in, in, in.

I trust your fingertips

to go anywhere.

Bien dans sa peau-

I am a goddess

sparkling in these

coconut sheets.

The following recipe is a perfect compliment to these two poems. The writer May Sarton believed that flowers were "silent presences" that "nourished every sense but the ear."

Lemon and Rose-Water Biscuits

YOU WILL NEED:

4 ounces (1 stick) butter, softened

1/2 cup of sugar

1 egg

1 scant tablespoon rose water

1/4 teaspoon caraway seeds or dried rosemary

1 tablespoon grated lemon rind

Pinch of backing soda

1 cup of flour

1. Cream butter and sugar together, then beat in egg till light and fluffy

2. Stir in the rose water, caraway seeds, and lemon rind.

Sprinkle with baking soda

3. Fold in the flour, 1.4 cup at a time.

4. Chill dough for several hours or overnight.

5. Lightly grease cookie sheets and preheat oven to 325.

6. Roll out the dough to 1.4 inch thick and cut int circles (a small, scalloped biscuit cutter would do nice). Place the slices 2 inches apart onto the greased cookie sheets.

7. Bake the cookies but not browned. Cool on rack. Store in a tightly covered tin or jar. Recipe makes 30 cookies.

Cheri

Your love...

its salt gives

your sugar bite.

Listen, listen

to the coins ache.

Shimmering tokens

of longing,

bathing in portholes

of desire.

Late nights,

twilight dips

in midnight water.

The curves of my

breasts,

hips,

hug like the

moon.

Soft, subtle.

White peacock

in the sand,

whispering in the lobe

of early morning.

Shift

I crave, I crave stillness.

Who left the incense humming?

On a branch, a butterfly

ponders emancipation.

A firetruck screams by, crushing

a row of forget-me-nots.

Will I ever be me again? I dreamt my

blood was a river flowing from my mouth.

A butterfly looks inside me,

blue green wings flashing.

Us in Africa

The winter’s been thick,

white black bruises on the road.

Sometimes, I see your face

in the skating rink, smiling back at me.

I dreamt about you

smoking a cigarette in my lap.

Your cherry sap lips exhaling woozy

rings of smoke. Your hands shaking,

so lovely, laughing at my Donald Duck.

Peterhill Boulevard. Midnight espressos,

sketching your face on our wall, carrot peels

in the sink, your blue panties on the bathroom floor.

Post-it notes with naughty poems, stuck all over our

dresser drawers. Everything still, just as it was.

Your tulips have collapsed in your mother’s vase.

The scum in the empty fish tank stinks of neglect.

Physio called, I told them you wouldn’t be in…ever.

I met someone, she’s tall unlike you.

Dark and patient. She listens with her eyes,

and sometimes she sounds like you.

I think it’s the way she rolls her rrrrrr’s. But I

still inhale your sweat when she’s beneath me.

Annie, when did you plunge so far away

from yourself? And where was I? Where was I.

Your voice, deserting me.

If I could just squeeze you. Tell you not to go.

I’d take you away to Africa.

We’d ride elephants, drink mango juice.

Blue Persuasion

My head.

Overflowing with past-due bores,

bosses and second-hand smoke.

I’m lured west like something

I just can’t quite grasp.

The horizon─ some kind of blues,

some kind of drug,

magic I have to know. . .

The highway pulls me

deeper into its mellow.

A deserted barn reminds me

of my grandfather, solid

but slightly leaning

over to one side.

The sky gushes blue.

Its calm, so persuasive.

Tired of being a servant to myself,

I let the worst part of me yield to the rainbow.

Fleur De Cafe

She’s got cosmic vertigo.

Lipstick fever, pink fatale.

Mornings with her vanity, afternoons

at the Fleur De Café.

Lethal legs drip down into

midnight heels. Her lips,

magnolia pulling you in, in, into

her cult of red hair.

Skin, cream against lace.

Lips, icy champagne.

Up all night.

When I was a boy,

I dreamt of this woman.

But I didn’t know she’d

make me

feel so empty.

Love Me Now

Still waiting for you to accept

that I’m leaving. The days are

running thin. The dates swell,

tiptoeing closer and closer. Gone.

Soon I’ll be a picture, a distant song.

Sadness ferments in your eyes.

Irises─ pools of black upon wet blue.

So please, love me now.

The room. Uneasy.

A salsa act brings it

down

in the kitchen.

They will

tango

loud and red, until you

come with me, we’ll cry together.

Your family that binds us will reach across

a continent to love their Lane. Hungry,

funny, lovely, stretchy Laney.

We’ve stumbled amongst the jagged rocks

that have cracked our egos. We’ve felt

our insides grow, twist, ache, lean against the walls

we’ve built to keep us a part. Oh, the tangle of denial.

But all I see in you is me, so love me now.

Blackbird- Renga Poem

The pen squats between

my finger and thumb.

Still. nothing.

A blackbird swoops in,

swaying like a drunken sailor.

His silky hands- confused.

Whack. An empty bottle

of Jack Daniels

wobbles on its heel,

crashes into the sink.

He gawks at his

new world,

a young man

on his first travels.

Wings of coal,

smooth waves of oil, airborne.

He chills

on the couch,

the sun

slides across his face,

smudging light

on his lucid specs.

His presence, my prayer.

A long hallway to write

and let it out, let it be, let it go.

Contempt

The winter’s teeth sink

into the plate of my sacrum.

If, if the earth could carry me,

I’d migrate to your garden.

A crow has devoured my dream.

Will I ever hear your laugh again?

The calendar wilts unconscious. A drunken

mass of lines, moons, numbers and days.

The furnace jerks alive with contempt.

I feel, I feel, I know its exhausted breath.

Duende- Mistress of Death

Her notes─ heavy with yearning,

the language of dark children,

bleeds through her lips.

Her vandal song cracks, 

pierces my heart, furious. 

In the sweaty lounge,

her song rouses his flame.

He surges against my bones,

brewing a space to breathe.

He claps his hands inside me.

Relentless. Unstitching

my life, tying me into knots.

He leans his forehead against

the devil’s gate, reeking of mud and lust.

A Ferrari for all my sins.

He bathes in the sweat of my fever,

jabs the raw in my wounds.

The blood, the black, the moon,

carves out a bedroom of light inside me.

Time yearns on, bending my back and

draining the pink from my cheeks. Soon

I will turn into nothing but a diamond

buried deep below the grass.

I search for death in the

garden, in a graveyard of roses.

How beautiful they are

surrendering to the earth.

Their thorns yield to the emptiness,

petals open to the stars.

Drawing Lessons
Your hand, lucid against the drench outside. The rain tumbles in marbles, crashing on the roof like falling forks and spoons. My eyes on your finger tracing a stickman on the sweaty glass. How I wish you’d use my naked back as your canvas. Write me a poem so I could guess the words. Rain, rain, rain, rain. Rinses the wounds of this old building liquid black. Glistens in the loom of the street lamps. I crawl across the rug to where you’re sitting. Your hand on my knee summons me closer until I’m in your lap. We watch the streets swell, their drains gasping for breath. Our world, dripping blind.

And now, time for something a little lighter...

Ode to Banana Cream Pie

Silk pillows of sugar

and cream on my tongue.

Your cookie crust that just

melts, melts, melts

my bad day.

Tender waves of vanilla,

smooth and supple

against my chapped lips.

I could nap in your velvety

sheets of sweetness. Dream

of many café dates together,

my taste-buds wrapped

in your innocent rapture.

Canary slices of silken

heaven, pulling the darkness

out from my insides.

Each bite? A divine

benediction.

If only life could be so gentle.